Two Steps Back
by Philote
Summary: Peter has always followed his instincts, despite what everyone else thought. But now that everything’s falling apart, all he wants is for someone to tell him what to do. Tag for “Unexpected.”


Title: Two Steps Back

Author: Philote

Rating: PG

Character/Pairing: Peter and Claude, gen

Summary: Peter has always followed his instincts, despite what everyone else thought. But now that everything's falling apart, all he wants is for someone to tell him what to do. Tag for "Unexpected."

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of _Heroes_ do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don't sue.

oOo

He didn't give it conscious thought. It's just always been this way. When he's hurt or upset he just naturally seems to gravitate toward Nathan's strong pull. So it's really no surprise that aimless wandering around the city has brought him here, outside Nathan's campaign office, staring at multiple posters with his brother's smiling face.

He hates those pictures.

He's been standing here for a while, but he hasn't brought himself to move any closer to the entrance yet. He has blood on his shirt, not to mention his hands. It's earned him a few strange looks and a couple of fearful ones, but he just doesn't care. He feels hollow but tenuous, as if something is on the verge of breaking.

Simone is gone, and he's quite possibly being hunted, and he doesn't know what to do.

He'd stopped time on the roof, but he knew Hiro's power could do so much more. He'd reached for it at Isaac's but couldn't make it work. In fact, he'd been unable to make any of his powers work. And Simone had stopped breathing, and Isaac was screaming at him, and…he can't really remember, past that. He has vague images of streets and cars and people, but he wasn't really aware of anything before this point; before Nathan, Nathan, and more Nathan.

His emotions are strung out and his control is shot. And he really shouldn't be here, because here is where It happens. If he steps a few yards to his right and into the street, he'll be in the exact spot. Only the vision doesn't work anymore…because Simone was in it.

And Simone is dead.

He draws in a shaky breath and finally starts moving. He makes it two steps before a guy in a suit with a cell phone to his ear clips him. Peter stumbles, stutters an indignant, "Hey!", but the guy just looks bewildered. And he looks all around, right through Peter.

Peter's very familiar with the feeling. He just hadn't realized it should apply at the moment. The clueless suit guy resumes his conversation and his quick pace away, leaving Peter to cope with the realization that one of his powers is working again. Problem is, he didn't consciously turn it on.

A little tendril of panic creeps past his numbness. No working powers was one thing; he wasn't too likely to kill anyone with that. Powers that are out of control…that's another thing entirely. A potentially explosive thing.

He looks up, and finds absolutely no comfort in the blinding, false smile of the multiple Nathans.

"Give in to the impulse, mate. Punch the face."

Peter freezes at the all-too-familiar taunt and turns slowly. Claude is standing a couple of yards away, some unidentifiable emotion mixed with the typical wild-eyed superiority of his features.

That explains the invisibility, then. But the leeching is still unintentional.

Claude stays where he is and looks him up and down. "You're a right mess."

Peter shakes his head, trying to clear his confusion. "What are you doing here?"

Claude doesn't get a chance to answer as the door in front of them opens. Peter's breath catches as Nathan steps out with some junior staffer in tow. "He was right here, sir. I swear I saw him," the young man is babbling. Nathan is scanning the street, showing an uncharacteristic bit of wildness of his own as he glances every which way. He, too, looks right through Peter, more than once.

Peter stares. He can't seem to make himself un-invisible. He just watches as his brother steps up until he's only a few feet away. Nathan Petrelli is a lawyer and politician through and through; very well-schooled in keeping true emotions off his features so people have trouble reading him. Peter doesn't have that problem. He simply studies Nathan's eyes. There's a definite bit of anger there, but there's a lot more worry.

Nathan steps closer still, tilting his head a bit, as if he senses Peter's presence even though he can't see him. But, somehow, Peter can't bring himself to speak. He feels like someone's put a vice around his chest and stomach and just started squeezing.

His yearning for Nathan is strong, but it's having to war with his desire to not blow Nathan up. He should never have gone to Isaac's, that much is clear. What if he shouldn't have come here? What if he shouldn't be near anyone he loves?

His breathing is growing too quick. He can't seem to draw in enough oxygen, and he's getting a sharp headache behind his eyes. He wants to throw himself into Nathan's arms and seek the comfort he so desperately wants.

He doesn't move. Nathan shuts his eyes in a very brief show of weakness before he takes in a deep breath and turns, shooting the young staffer an unhappy scowl as he heads back towards the building.

Peter swallows hard as the spell is broken and finally takes a step. There's a loud, pointed cough behind him. Claude is casting him a fierce look, shaking his head. Clearly, 'let him go.'

Screw Claude; he wants Nathan. He opens his mouth to call out, but at that moment a horn blares on the street right behind him. He winces, feeling the frustration and desperation mount higher still, and nearly cries out when the sound repeats.

He's three feet up before he even realizes he's left the ground.

Claude swoops closer and grabs his wrist none-too-gently. Peter forcefully wrestles with the power, managing to turn it off with a snap that sends him crashing down on top of the invisible man.

Despite the bustling street, the sound of bodies falling and grunting catches Nathan's attention. He turns back for a moment, casting suspicious looks in their general direction. Peter tries to push himself up and only succeeds in leaning all his weight on Claude's stomach, earning a colorful curse before a car alarm goes off down the street.

It's too much stimulation on top of his already precarious state. The downtown street sounds don't get any softer, but they retreat into the background as his head is suddenly filled with more voices than he can count. He gasps at the onslaught, curling in on himself.

Claude sits up but Peter makes no effort to move, leaving him practically in the man's lap. Dimly he notices that Nathan has given up on the strange sounds and is walking away, back into the building. Out of reach.

Peter buries his head against Claude's chest in an instinctive effort to find refuge and claps a hand over his still-exposed left ear. "Make it stop," he pleads, and though it sounds distant and weak he may have shouted for all he knows. He feels Claude's hands on his head, trying to pull his hand away, trying to make himself heard, but Peter's past hearing.

He's grateful for the strength that pries him away and the roughness in the hands that spin him around. It's just survival instinct that makes him panic when the forearm comes across, pressing unmercifully against his windpipe. He struggles automatically but there are already spots in front of his eyes, and pretty soon all he sees is darkness.

oOo

"Wake up, sunshine."

Peter groans as he forces his eyes open, blinking up at an entirely too cheerful Claude. He takes stock, finding that the light is too dull to be natural and the surface he's laying on is too soft to be concrete. "Where are we?"

"Hotel."

There's a repetitive thudding against the opposite wall, shortly accompanied by moans and exclamations that actually make him blush. "What sort of hotel?"

"The only sort a man can afford when he's been saddled with a morally-burdened future bomb-boy and can't pick pockets at his leisure."

"You actually paid for it?"

Claude's been gazing at the wall with a somewhat wistful expression. Now he turns on Peter with an affronted look. "I pay for things. Why do you suppose I need to steal cash?"

Peter just shuts his eyes against the fog in his brain, not up to going ten rounds with the Brit right now. "How did you find me?" he asks wearily.

"Please. I told you who I thought had betrayed you. It would be stupid to go there, being as it would make you an easy mark. So, knowing you as I have come to, I went straight to the painter's apartment." He pauses then, the sarcastic lilt leaving. "When I saw the mess there, I knew where you'd have gone next."

There's something in his eyes that's almost like concern; except that this is the guy who sees regular beatings as a lesson plan, so that seems unlikely. Peter sniffs and turns his own gaze to study the ratty carpet. "Were the cops there yet?"

"Yeah. I guess someone heard the gunshots. He was admitting to it. Said he thought she was a burglar; shot her by accident. I didn't hear him mention you."

"He was aiming for me. Only I was invisible. So when he heard something he just turned around and…and fired." There's still blood on his hands. A second after he realizes it it's suddenly very important that he gets it off, now. He stands, wobbles for a moment, and then pushes past Claude into the dimly lit bathroom.

Claude follows; leans against the doorframe watching as he turns on the faucet and grabs the bar of soap. He's silent for a bit, studying Peter. "You've gone and convinced yourself it was your fault, haven't you?"

"It _was_ my fault." Peter scrubs at his skin with painful force as the water hitting the porcelain turns pink. "I was taunting him. I threw him across the room! I just…I wanted him to tell me who they were. What they wanted." The soap slips from his tight grasp and he curses under his breath as he picks it up before adding, "Why he did it."

"Let me guess. He wants to be a hero."

"Maybe. I don't know; I know he wanted to keep Simone away from me." His voice betrays him, breaking on her name. He sucks in a breath and scrubs his hands harder still. "I know I liked him better as a junkie."

Claude has the nerve to chuckle. "Of course you did. Back then he was the antihero; the one who couldn't control his power and was a slave to something. He was the one with the issues the girl couldn't deal with." He pauses. "Did you run out of her blood? You seem to have moved on to your own."

Peter is confused for a moment before he actually focuses on what he's doing. He's rubbed his fingers raw; scraped with his fingernails enough that he's opened the skin in several places. Oddly enough, he doesn't feel it. He holds his hands still under the stream of water, staring at them.

"But now Isaac's clean. He thinks he's found the moral high ground. They've made him believe that turning on his own is for the best." Claude's tone has darkened to such a degree that Peter actually looks up at him. But after a brief pause he shakes himself, straightens, and takes a step away from the doorframe. "He's got that bright-eyed self-important look, like he can save the world. That used to be you, didn't it? You've gone and switched places with him. Only you can make a heroin habit look like a day in Disneyland."

Peter shakes his head in denial, his lips pressed tightly together.

"But what really gets to you is that you know he's right. When you don't have control you are a danger. And if you can't do better than what I saw today, you're going to have far more on your conscience than one measly dead girlfriend."

"Shut the hell up!" The poor bar of soap goes flying, past Claude and clear across the room.

Claude stares after it and drawls slowly, "Behold exhibit A."

Peter's a little too occupied to respond. The sensations are an eerie shadow of a mere few hours before. He can't breathe again; his head's beginning to spin. To his right the plastic shower curtain plasters itself against the wall as if a great gust of wind had just come through.

Then, abruptly, he can't see. What's before his eyes is a jumble of color splashes and blinding white, and he recognizes the start of a vision.

At least he can hear this time; the world's not bring drowned out by the thoughts of everyone in a fifty foot radius. Claude's voice is close and stern. "No no, we're not doing this again. Stop it, _now_."

"I can't…"

The hands are back, tugging him into the room and following him down when he goes to his knees. "You _can_. You're just having a bloody panic attack. Get it under control!"

Survival instinct is a bit stronger this time, making him lash out as soon as he recognizes the movements from earlier. But Claude's bigger and stronger and he easily catches Peter against his chest, holding him fast. "Stop fighting me! Breathe, breathe with me. Come on now."

The gesture slowly does what was intended as he feels the steady rise of Claude's chest against his back and forces himself to breathe in time with that rhythm. He blinks rapidly, ridiculously happy when he's able to focus on the ugly wallpaper a few feet away. The tension eases and he's slowly able to relax.

"That's it." After a few long beats Claude declares, "You really didn't have to prove my point; I already knew I was right."

There's something absurd about getting an 'I told you so' immediately after a near-disastrous loss of control, especially from the guy who provoked it. It's so…Nathan-like. Peter starts laughing.

He starts, and then he can't stop. He recognizes the hysterical tinge to it, but doesn't realize that it's not laughter anymore until he feels the wetness trickling down his cheeks.

He can't breathe again, but for an entirely different reason. He's not panicking; in fact he's cognizant enough to be a little bit mortified by this. He automatically tries to pull away.

But Claude's still got a vice-like hold. His voice is soft for once, almost gentle. "Go ahead. You're a bloody wreck, and it's not gonna get any better while you're trying to hold it all in."

He wouldn't call Claude's grip comforting, exactly. But it's secure. Someone's got him; someone will catch him when he falls.

So he does…not that he could have stopped it if he tried. He manages to keep the sobs quiet, but he can't keep them in any longer. He's felt betrayed, lost, and alone, all on top of the grief…and the guilt. It's been building for so long and to such a degree that he's surprised he hasn't already blown apart.

Claude doesn't move or say anything. They just sit for the long minutes it takes for Peter's tears to play out. When they finally do he feels drained and more than a little embarrassed, and he keeps the position until Claude finally moves to release him with a quick squeeze to the shoulder.

He can't quite look Claude in the eye as the older man hauls him up and assists him a few feet before depositing him back onto the mattress and hunkering down in front of him.

"Feel better?"

Not really. Peter just shrugs.

Claude pokes an index finger into his chest. "See what I've been trying to tell you? I'm sorry you had to find out like this, but life is much less painful if you aren't all encumbered by other people. You shouldn't give anyone the power to hurt you."

That's a little ironic coming from the guy who just held him, but he's not sure he can fault the logic anymore. He shrugs again, and feels like a little boy. He hasn't cried like that since the unexpected flood of emotions after his father's funeral.

And after this whole episode, he really feels like he owes Claude some sort of apology for earlier. After a few more beats of uncomfortable silence he stammers, "I'm sorry they found us, whoever they were. I really don't know, and I didn't know they were after me…"

"I know."

Peter squints at him, thrown off by the easy, unexpected agreement. "I'm not lying."

"No; I can't quite imagine you lying."

It's clear he doesn't mean that as a compliment. Peter huffs, annoyance starting to supersede his embarrassment. "Why did you come back?"

"I have no idea," Claude responds cheerily. "But I'd be a bit more grateful if I were you, since you clearly can't function without me."

"I can so," he fires back automatically.

"Oh? So your solution to everything is to go running back to big brother?"

"Maybe. What's so wrong with that? I can control it better now, Nathan will see…"

"Nathan will see you crawling back, asking him to take care of you again. Have you forgotten how he planned to do that? I seem to recall talk of a mental facility."

"He might threaten, but he wouldn't actually do it."

"Do you really believe that?"

Peter grimaces a little. Because no, Nathan would never hurt him…unless he'd convinced himself that it was for Peter's own good.

He doesn't answer Claude's question. Which, of course, is answer enough. "Nathan isn't safe. And not just because he wants to lock you away. Your brother is very high profile. If your professor friend knew enough to seek him out, then odds are they do too."

Peter has to pause at that. "You think they know about Nathan?"

"I think Nathan knows about them. And I think he's somehow decided that it would be better to lock you up as a mental patient than to let them lock you up as a lab rat. A bit ironic, that." He tilts his head, studying Peter with unnerving intensity. "But he's going to find that, despite the best laid plans of politicians, he can't protect you. Not from them."

"And you can?"

"I've got a far better shot at it, yeah."

It's Peter's turn to study Claude. After the encounter earlier he'd really expected the invisible man to be at least a couple states away by nightfall. He knows next to nothing about Claude's past, but he knows that coming back was like stepping into a literal line of fire. He ventures, "I'm not asking you to stay. You're obviously scared."

"You're damn right I'm scared. You should be too."

Peter goes quiet for a long moment. "What did they do to you?"

"That's none of your business."

"Yeah, I kinda think it is."

"Well I'm not gonna tell you. You're not my buddy; you're my responsibility." Peter arches an eyebrow, because that claim is new. Claude continues, "So what I will do is keep it from happening to you."

The declaration makes something behind Peter's eyes burn. He suddenly realizes just how tired he is. In a whisper he reminds, "I'm dangerous to the people around me."

"Yeah, you are. Apparently my years of invisibility have fostered a masochistic streak." Peter just swallows, refusing to meet his eyes. "Hey." Claude taps his cheek until he looks up. "The part where you don't want to hurt people—that counts for something."

Not enough, Peter thinks. Resigned he asks, "So what do we do?"

"We get the hell out of Dodge, that's what."

Peter holds his gaze for a long moment before he looks away with a weary sigh. "Yeah, okay. I'll need to go home; pack some clothes and stuff—"

"No." The fact that Claude let him get that far tells how surprised he was by the easy acquiescence, but he doesn't question it. "We can't go back to your apartment. We'll get you whatever you need."

"You mean we'll steal it."

"What's more important? Your life, or a little shoplifting?"

Peter shakes his head, unable to rise to the bait. When he speaks, his tone is dead. "I don't know anymore."

Claude eyes him narrowly. "Right. Here's a hint, mate—the shoplifting is nothing." He steps to the bedside and reaches out, comfortable as ever with manhandling his charge. Peter doesn't even offer token resistance as he is pushed into the pillow and shifted and prodded until he is under the covers. "Get some sleep; who knows when you'll have such a nice bed again."

Peter snorts, because he's never felt lumps like this mattress, and there's some ominous stain on the sheets. He finds that he really doesn't care.

Claude turns out the lamp and goes to settle in the room's lone rickety-looking chair. Peter watches him in the moonlight. For all the man's protests and threats, he keeps coming back. Somehow, some way, this prickly social outcast has come to care about what happens to him, even if he would deny it under torture.

He's becoming the only constant in Peter's world.

And, deep in his mind, a little thought worms its way in. He cares about what happens to Claude, too. And if he should have kept clear of Simone, and if he should keep his distance from Nathan and his family…it might have been better for Claude if he had kept running.

He tells himself that it's different because Claude knows what he's getting into. But if his blood ends up on Peter's hands, he knows it won't be any different at all.

Still, Peter is whole-heartedly, selfishly glad that he came back. Consequences be damned.

And that's just one more changing aspect of Peter Petrelli that he doesn't think he likes at all.

oOo


End file.
